“Well, Monsieur Antonin,” said Cecile, laughing at Vinet’s sarcasm. “Your ten minutes have expired, and you haven’t told us whether the Unknown is a count or not.”
“I shall keep my promise,” replied the sub-prefect, perceiving at that moment the head of his valet in the doorway; and again he left his place beside Cecile.
“You are talking of the stranger,” said Madame Marion. “Is anything really known about him?”
“No, madame,” replied Achille Pigoult; “but he is, without knowing it, like the clown of a circus, the centre of the eyes of the two thousand inhabitants of this town. I know one thing about him,” added the little notary.
“Oh, tell us, Monsieur Achille!” cried Ernestine, eagerly.
“His tiger’s name is Paradise!”
“Paradise!” echoed every one included in the little circle.
“Can a man be called Paradise?” asked Madame Herbelot, who had joined her sister-in-law.
“It tends to prove,” continued the notary, “that the master is an angel; for when his tiger follows him – you understand.”
“It is the road of Paradise! very good, that,” said Madame Marion, anxious to flatter Achille Pigoult in the interests of her nephew.
“Monsieur,” said Antonin’s valet in the dining-room, “the tilbury has a coat of arms – ”
“Coat of arms!”
“Yes, and droll enough they are! There’s a coronet with nine points and pearls – ”
“Then he’s a count!”
“And a monster with wings, flying like a postilion who has dropped something. And here is what is written on the belt,” added the man, taking a paper from his pocket. “Mademoiselle Anicette, the Princesse de Cadignan’s lady’s maid, who came in a carriage” (the Cinq-Cygne carriage before the door of the Mulet!) “to bring a letter to the gentleman, wrote it down for me.”
“Give it to me.”
The sub-prefect read the words: Quo me trahit fortuna.
Though he was not strong enough in French blazon to know the house that bore that device, Antonin felt sure that the Cinq-Cygnes would not send their chariot, nor the Princess de Cadignan a missive by her maid, except to a person of the highest nobility.
“Ha! so you know the maid of the Princess de Cadignan! happy man!” said Antonin.
Julien, a young countryman, after serving six months in the household of the Comte de Gondreville, had entered the service of the sub-prefect, who wanted a servant of the right style.
“But, monsieur, Anicette is my father’s god-daughter. Papa, who wanted to do well by the girl, whose father was dead, sent her to a dressmaker in Paris because my mother could not endure her.”
“Is she pretty?”
“Rather; the proof is that she got into trouble in Paris; but finally, as she has talent and can make gowns and dress hair, she got a place with the princess.”
“What did she tell you about Cinq-Cygne? Is there much company?”
“A great deal, monsieur. There’s the princess and Monsieur d’Arthez, the Duc de Maufrigneuse and the duchess and the young marquis. In fact the chateau is full. They expect Monseigneur the Bishop of Troyes to-night.”
“Monsieur Troubert! I should like to know how long he is going to stay.”
“Anicette thinks for some time; and she believes he is coming to meet the gentleman who is now at the Mulet. They expect more company. The coachman told me they were talking a great deal about the election. Monsieur le president Michu is expected in a few days.”
“Try to bring that lady’s maid into town on pretence of shopping. Have you any designs upon her?”
“If she has any savings I don’t know but what I might. She is a sly one, though.”
“Tell her to come and see you at the sub-prefecture.”
“Yes, monsieur. I’ll go and tell her now.”
“Don’t say anything about me, or she might not come.”
“Ah! monsieur; haven’t I served at Gondreville?”
“You don’t know why they sent that message from Cinq-Cygne at this hour, do you? It is half-past nine o’clock.”
“It must have been something pressing. The gentleman had only just returned from Gondreville.”
“Gondreville! – has he been to Gondreville?”
“He dined there, monsieur. If you went to the Mulet you’d laugh! The little tiger is, saving your presence, as drunk as a fiddler. He drank such a lot of champagne in the servants’ hall that he can’t stand on his legs; they have been filling him for fun.”
“And the count?”
“The count had gone to bed; but as soon as he received the letter he got up. He is now dressing himself; and they are putting the horse in the tilbury. The count is to spend the night at Cinq-Cygne.”
“He must be some great personage.”
“Oh, yes, monsieur; for Gothard, the steward of Cinq-Cygne, came this morning to see his brother-in-law Poupart, and warned him to be very discreet about the gentleman and to serve him like a king.”
“Vinet must be right,” thought the sub-prefect. “Can there be some cabal on foot?”
“It was Duc Georges de Maufrigneuse who sent Gothard to the Mulet. Poupart came to the meeting here this morning only because the gentleman wished him to do so; if he had sent him to Paris, he’d go. Gothard told Poupart to keep silent about the gentleman, and to fool all inquisitive people.”
“If you can get Anicette here, don’t fail to let me know,” said Antonin.
“But I could see her at Cinq-Cygne if monsieur would send me to his house at Val-Preux.”
“That’s an idea. You might profit by the chariot to get there. But what reason could you give to the little groom?”
“He’s a madcap, that boy, monsieur. Would you believe it, drunk as he is, he has just mounted his master’s thoroughbred, a horse that can do twenty miles an hour, and started for Troyes with a letter in order that it may reach Paris to-morrow! And only nine years and a half old! What will he be at twenty?”
The sub-prefect listened mechanically to these remarks. Julien gossiped on, his master listening, absorbed in thought about the stranger.
“Wait here,” he said to the man as he turned with slow steps to re-enter the salon. “What a mess!” he thought to himself, – “a man who dines at Gondreville and spends the night at Cinq-Cygnes! Mysteries indeed!”
“Well?” cried the circle around Mademoiselle Beauvisage as soon as he reappeared.
“He is a count, and vieille roche, I answer for it.”
“Oh! how I should like to see him!” cried Cecile.
“Mademoiselle,” said Antonin, smiling and looking maliciously at Madame Mollot, “he is tall and well-made and does not wear a wig. His little groom was as drunk as the twenty-four cantons; they filled him with champagne at Gondreville and that little scamp, only nine years old, answered my man Julien, who asked him about his master’s wig, with all the assumption of an old valet: ‘My master! wear a wig! – if he did I’d leave him. He dyes his hair and that’s bad enough.’”
“Your opera-glass magnifies,” said Achille Pigoult to Madame Mollot, who laughed.
“Well, the tiger of the handsome count, drunk as he is, is now riding to Troyes to post a letter, and he’ll get there, as they say, in five-quarters